Coming Home
by AngelofAir
Summary: Jace leaves Clary one day to become a Navy Seal, with the promise to return to her five years later. When the time comes for him to return, he is reported missing in action, and Clary breaks. Fast forward five more years. Clary's life has become a chore. Jace isn't actually MIA...he's a homeless in Alphabet City, and he has PTSD. Can they find their way back to each other?
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: This is rated M for violence, mild horror, and strong sexual themes. Read at your own risk.**

* * *

_You'll never be as good as her._

Clary Fray stared unseeingly at the blank canvas before her and bit her lip as the canvas mocked her. Her paintbrush trembled in her hand, metallic gold paint dripping from the tip onto her white pants. She didn't seem to notice.

_Where do you get off, thinking you can paint? I can't believe you have the audacity, the gall, to even attempt to emulate the great Jocelyn Fray's work. _

Clary tasted blood. The Canvas smirked at her, its white lips stretching thinly across an equally pale face, so pale, she could barely differentiate its features. Another face smirked at her in her mind's eye. He never went away. No matter how hard she tried to forget, tried to move on, his image kept reappearing. He was ingrained into her mind. He was a part of her, forever. She would never be rid of him.

_Especially when you're trying to paint _him_._

Clary hastily shoved the paintbrush back in the small cup of gold paint, standing up and knocking her palette onto the floor. "Dammit!" she muttered through grit teeth, bending down to pick the palette off the floor and set it on her stool. She wiped a rebellious tear away, smearing paint on her pale, freckled cheek.

Night had fallen on New York City, and the moonlight was filtering in through her large apartment window, the only natural light among a plethora of bright, artificial mimicry. Seven stories below her, bright yellow taxis weaving through the duller, larger buses and honking obnoxiously the entire time. It was near 10 o'clock pm, so there weren't as many people out and about on the sidewalks, but there were enough. Clary leaned heavily against the window and watched them stream by.

What were their lives like? Were they rushing home to a loving family and a warm bed? Were they thinking about their flight to Florida the next day, ready to visit family for Thanksgiving? Maybe even thinking as far ahead as Black Friday, making mental Christmas lists for their children?

Not that Clary cared. Clary stopped caring about Thanksgiving, Christmas, family…a long time ago. About ten years ago, to be exact.

* * *

_He laughed and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. His curly, golden locks were gone, leaving her with an ache in her fingers, but his eyes were the same. They still made her melt into him, made her want nothing more than to curl up inside of him and burrow there, and never leave. Ever._

"_I'll see you in about five years, Clary. Then we'll both be done with school, and I'll have an income to support us with. Can you wait that long…for me?"_

_Clary nodded, burrowing her face in his uniform. She was highly aware of the drill instructor eyeing them disapprovingly, but she didn't care. The drill instructor could screw himself, for all she cared. Her boyfriend was leaving her for five long years—possibly forever, though she forced her thoughts away from exploring that possibility. The drill instructor could wait ten measly minutes._

"_I love you so much, Clary. So much. Never forget that."_

* * *

She never did forget him. Or what he'd said to her that day, long ago. It had resided in her heart like a small flower bud—a little petal of hope. The closer to the five year mark she got, the more the little bud blossomed, until it became a fully mature flower of expectancy and faith, of certainty and hope—so much hope.

So much naïveté.

* * *

_Clary grinned at Isabelle Lightwood and flicked some of the army green acrylic paint at her friend's nose, giving the raven-haired girl little green freckles. "Now we match, Iz," she laughed._

_Isabelle scowled good-naturedly and wiped at the paint, which only made Clary laugh harder, because the paint smeared from freckles into streaks._

"_Maybe you should immigrate to Africa, find a tribe to fall in with," Clary suggested between snickers. "You've got the perfect look."_

_Isabelle opened her mouth to retort when her phone rang. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen with a sigh. "It's my mother. Hold that thought. Yes, Mom?"_

_Clary shook her head with a smile and left the room to brew two cups of tea—no sugar in either, weak and black. Everything in life was going according to plan. She'd finished college with an art degree at Manhattan University, had her own apartment (complete with a California king-sized bed for both her and Jace, when he returned). She had a good job. Jace, her boyfriend, was coming home in three days. _

_She couldn't wait to see him._

_She picked up the mugs of tea and made her way back to her little art studio, bumping the door open with her hip. Isabelle had stopped talking on the phone._

"_So," Clary said, glancing out the window. "I'm thinking that when Jace gets home, we should—"_

"_He's not coming home, Clary," Isabelle said, almost so quietly she couldn't hear it._

_Clary froze and looked at Isabelle. Tears were streaming down the other girl's cheeks, and her entire body was trembling. "What do you mean he's not coming home?" Clary asked. Her vision began to become clouded with black. She swayed on her feet._

"_I-I mean…" Isabelle sniffed. "He's missing. There was a-an explosion. His convoy back to base was ambushed a-and they haven't found any survivors yet. His body hasn't been accounted for either, so they've declared him missing in action, but…they say there are a lot—a lot of…of remains…that they can't identify. Too mangled up." Isabelle gave a shuddering sob._

_Later, Clary didn't remember dropping the mugs and letting them shatter on the ground. She didn't remember running out of the house. She didn't even remember how she had managed to get to Central Park. What she did remember was shivering in the cold October air, her breath a vapor before her eyes. She remembered breaking down against a tree and sobbing and sobbing and sobbing. She remembered screaming—screaming at herself, at Jace, at the homeless people on the benches. She remembered waking up, somehow, in her old bed at her mother's house. She remembered refusing to talk to anyone for over a month._

_The Lightwoods, Jace's adopted family, received the official letter a month later. He was missing in action, but they had to give up the search. There were more important things to focus on. He was possibly okay. He might find his way back._

_Clary tuned all of those words out. All lies. They might as well have pronounced him dead._

_And just like that, the beautiful flower of hope in her heart wilted and burned, until nothing was left but the ashes._

* * *

Over the following five years, she managed to shut everyone out. Isabelle…her mother…Simon. No one bothered her anymore. She didn't bother them.

Eat. Work. Paint. Sleep.

* * *

"You must have been quite a pretty thing, once upon a time. Funny how circumstances change that, isn't it?"

A young man stared at the gutter before his feet. His muddy, matted blond hair clung to his forehead, and he wiped a bit of mud from his eyes. "You won't be laughing when I kick your ass into New Jersey."

The woman laughed and wrapped her shawl around herself tightly, moving to sit next to the man. "You're funny. I like you."

The man sighed and glanced up at the sky. "Well, I don't like you."

The woman brought her arms up to wrap around his neck. She curled her fingers in his hair and forced him to look at her. She pouted. "Now…how did a fine specimen like you end up like this? All poor and alone, like us ugly folk?"

The man shifted away from her and shoved his hands into his hole-ridden, frayed black leather jacket. "Volunteered to help the government."

The woman chuckled. "Ah. You might as well have signed your soul over to the Devil." She smirked seductively and leaned in, her lips grazing his ear. "You look like you could use a pick me up. Come on over to my place? Free of charge."

A look of disgust flashed briefly across the man's filthy, muddy face, before it was replaced with indifference. He turned his golden eyes on the woman. "Free of charge, you say?"

* * *

"_Hey Captain!" Michael grinned. "How about a lift?"_

_The young man laughed and helped his friend climb over the wall before heaving himself over it. "I can't believe the Navy SEALS have been reduced to this—fence hopping."_

"_It isn't exactly horrible when you think about what the enemy has done—border hopping and all."_

_The young man nodded and brought his gun up, pointing it in front of him. _

_The general told them there would be a trap._

_Where was the trap?_

_Michael and the young man froze suddenly, as they heard a scream. As quiet as possible, they edged toward the side of the building. There, in the center of the square, was a little Iraqi girl, crying. The young man bit into his tongue and began to run out and help her when Michael yanked him back down._

"_She needs help, Michael," the young man said._

_Michael shook his head. "Look at the bulk beneath her dress. There's a bomb strapped to her. They're sacrificing her. There's nothing we can do but try and save ourselves."_

_The young man tried ducking further behind the wall, but that became impossible when the girl began to morph and change. Her brown hair became curly and red. Her eyes green. Her skin pale and dusted with freckles, and all of a sudden, Clary Fray was the little girl in the middle of the square, crying with terror._

_The young man jumped up and ran toward Clary, screaming her name. "Clary! Clary, what the hell are you doing here?! What-?"_

_Clary stared up at him blankly. "Who are you?"_

_The young man blinked. "What—what do you mean, 'who am I'? Don't you remember me?"_

"_Can you help me?" she whispered. _

_The bomb went off._

* * *

The young man sat up in the prostitute's bed, rigid and gasping for air, his chest heaving. He shuddered and buried his face in his hands, a promise echoing in his mind.

"_I promise I'll wait for you, Jace."_

* * *

**Okay! First chapter! Whadday'all think? Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay! Every other segment is a switched POV. First segment is Clary…second is Jace…so on and so forth. Sorry it's short. It's 2:30 am.**

* * *

Clary sighed into the phone, dropping her metallic gold colored pencil. "No, Mom. I haven't met a nice boy and gotten married without telling you…No, I haven't met a demonic boy and eloped with him in Vegas, either…yeah…mhm…mhm…Yes, Mom. I'm fine, I promise…Okay…Bye."

Clary hit the 'End Call' button on her iPhone and dropped it carelessly on the dusty table next to her. She frowned at the sketch in front of her.

_The angel was suspended in midair over the dark canyon, wings spread wide, golden hair lifted by the breeze, eyes looking down…_

Something was missing.

She snatched a black pencil from the table, bent over the drawing, and added another element before throwing the pencil down, grabbing her purse, and hastily leaving the apartment.

She'd drawn an arrow, trailing ash, heading straight for the angel's back.

* * *

"I didn't do anything wrong."

Jace closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the brick wall.

"Ya hear me, boy? I's talkin' to you. Why you livin' here?"

Jace clenched his jaw.

"You talk real purty. Like youse edumacated or somethin'. You come from a real nice place, I's can tell. So why youse livin' in ABC City. Don' you belong wit dem rich folk? Or did dey cast youse out? Did dey not like you anymore—"

The man's taunting was cut off abruptly as Jace, who couldn't take anymore, knocked him out with a single blow to the head.

"I didn't do anything wrong."

* * *

"You need to get out more, Clary."

Clary rolled her eyes. "Oh god, Simon, not you, too."

Simon was quiet for a moment. "It's been ten years, Clary. Ten. Years."

Clary didn't say anything.

"A decade. He left you a decade ago."

Clary's eyes shot up and she glared at him. "He didn't _leave _me, Simon. Something detained him. He's not dead, he's—"

"Missing in action, I know," Simon said, clearly exasperated. "You can't wait for him forever, Clary. Eventually they're going to officially pronounce him dead…probably as soon as this war is over and they even give him another thought—"

Clary rose quickly from the table, drawing attention from other customers in the café. "Stop that, Simon. You stop that, right now. He's not dead. I refuse to believe that he's dead, and I will refuse to believe it until I see a body."

* * *

Jace dusted the half-eaten apple on his jacket and hungrily took a large bite. He hadn't eaten anything this fresh in months. His eyes, gold but dulled from years of hardship and months of poverty, roamed the street before him. He'd spent the entire day wandering up to Manhattan in hopes of finding some unwanted food thrown out in the trashcans. Dumpster diving was illegal, he knew, and he hated breaking the law, being dishonest, but he was desperate.

A flash of red hair caught his eye and he almost dropped the apple.

There she was.

Not even a block away from him.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair had grown down past her waist, and her freckles were light and slightly faded. She wore grey sweats splattered with paint and carried a large canvas bag over her shoulder, probably, Jace mused, filled with paint supplies.

Jace tossed away the apple and started eagerly across the street, to Clary…

There was a boy with her.

A boy?

* * *

Simon caught Clary's arm and spun her around outside the café. "Clary…Clare, I'm sorry. It's just…"

"What? What can you possibly have to say, Simon? You've succeeded in making my day worse than it already was. Congratulations."

Simon looked remorseful. "I really am sorry. It's just…it's been so long, and you've been so unhappy. It hurts. It hurts to call you and hear your voice so dead. It hurts to see you with knotted hair and bags under your eyes. It hurts to see the knots in your hands, from drawing and painting so constantly. I want my Clary back."

Clary's expression softened. He wasn't wrong. She wanted so badly to just accept that Jace was gone and he wasn't coming back, but the other half of her heart was screaming at her not to give up hope and latching onto the memory of her boyfriend.

Wasn't one of the stages of grief denial?

She sighed and blew a strand of red hair out of her face. "What do you suggest I do, Simon?"

He smiled slightly and tucked the rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. "Will you go out with me?"

Clary's eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat. "You—you…what?"

Simon's smile lessened. "Just one date, maybe? I…I don't know, I guess…I guess I was hoping that after ten years…well…you could consider being my girlfriend, but…I guess that was just really stupid—"

Clary cut him off by grabbing his shirt and pulling him down toward her. She connected their lips, and although he tensed up at first, he soon opened his mouth willingly and groaned a little. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, settling his thumb on her chin and gently pressing her into him. She went pliant, her heart beating erratically…

But her mind was somewhere else. Her mind was screaming at her. _JACE. JACE. JACE. JACE. YOU IDIOT. JACE._

It didn't matter.

All she was looking for was physical release.

* * *

Jace cringed physically when Clary pulled the boy in and kissed him. It wasn't just a friendly peck, either.

She'd only ever kissed _him _like that.

Jace couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He couldn't move. He couldn't feel. The world around him began to darken and he glanced up at the sky in wonderment…

"_Come on, buddy," Jace breathed, dragging Ben by his arms into the trench. "You can make it…think of Sara…you gotta get back home to her."_

_Ben groaned and spit blood onto the ground._

_Jace heaved Ben up against the side of the trench, where it was least likely for a bomb to fall, and readjusted both of their helmets. He positioned his rifle right up at the edge of the trench, ready for any enemy. Screams and groans of the dying and wounded could be heard all around him in the dark, which made it that much worse._

_When it was dark, you couldn't see._

_When it was dark, your hearing was hypersensitive._

_When it was dark, all you could focus on were the sounds around you._

_Ben screamed and Jace dropped down next to him again. "Ben?"_

_Ben looked at Jace and clutched his arm in a vice-like grip. "Ssssssss…."_

"_Sara? Are you trying to say Sara?"_

_With one more choke, Ben's eyes glazed over. Ben was no more._

_Jace grimaced and tried to remove his arm from Ben's hand. No luck. The grip of the dead was a nearly impossible one to get out of. Jace squeezed his eyes shut, tried to squeeze his ears shut, and methodically broke every single one of Ben's fingers._

_His hand was free._

_Jace breathed a sigh of relief and gripped his gun. He stood up to face an oncoming soldier…_

_A blossom of pain._

_Nothing._

* * *

Clary broke away from Simon and looked away from him, sure she could feel herself blushing. She could hear Simon breathing heavily, no doubt in shock.

A few yards away from her, a homeless man stood stiff, his eyes wide and almost glazed over. Clary furrowed her brow…she knew him from somewhere.

The man suddenly crumpled to the ground with a shout and Clary gave a yelp. She pulled out her cell phone and ran over to the man. He was unconscious, but still breathing.

Where did she know him from?

"Yes, 911? I need an ambulance…"

* * *

**Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**PS This story is going to be more about Jace dealing with PTSD than them finding each other…seeing as how…well…yeah.**

* * *

"Is this Clarissa Fray?"

Clary swallowed. The voice on the other end was pleasant, but urgent. It spoke of business. She wondered who else in her life had gone missing. "Yes…"

"You had better sit down."

* * *

Clary burst through the doors of the hospital, her heart pounding. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears, and she was sure she looked crazy, insane, wild-eyed, but she didn't care. After she'd gotten off the phone with the nurse, she'd dropped everything, grabbed enough money for a cab, and run. She hadn't even changed—she was still wearing boy shorts and a camisole.

A security guard approached her, his hand on his belt, his other hand held out towards her. "Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to slow down and calm down, please."

Clary shook her head. "You don't understand…my boy—my b…my—"

"Please, Miss. You need to calm down. It is very possible you could stress some of the patients here out—"

"Are you Clarissa Fray?"

Clary peered over the security guard's shoulder, at a prim-looking nurse holding a clipboard. "Yes?"

The nurse smiled. "Follow me please. It's all right, Yancey. She's been through a lot. She won't disturb anyone else."

The security guard—Yancey—nodded and stepped out of Clary's way with a nod, and Clary wasted no time in taking off after the nurse.

"Here's a robe, Clarissa," the nurse said, handing Clary a paper hospital gown.

"But I'm not—"

"I know. But, you are dressed…well, inappropriately for a hospital. I'd just appreciate it if you covered up a bit."

Clary nodded and pulled the scrubs on as she walked, hopping and skipping along the way, and frankly, trying her hardest not to fall.

"When you called 911," the nurse continued. "He must have been having a flashback. There was nothing wrong with him, physically, but brain activity was incredibly high. He was virtually unrecognizable. Then, once we woke up, we gave him a shower, asked him some questions. He said he had been in the army, but he'd been kidnapped and dragged back across the ocean, sold to some underground gang here, in New York. He only just escaped three days ago, he said. Then he asked about you, and while I called you, Yancey called the military, and sure enough, it's really him." The nurse and Clary had arrived at a hospital door. "I'll leave you two alone for a while. But he's in here."

With that, the nurse trotted off down the hall, and Clary was left in front of the hospital door, struggling to remember how to breathe, how to feel, how to speak. She placed her hand on the door handle…and she pushed it open.

What she saw nearly broke her into a thousand pieces.

It was Jace, yes, there was no doubt about that. But he looked so…different. His hair had grown back, in all its gold glory, but it had grown too long. It hung down over his eyes, which were weighted with dark, black and purple circles. His face was too thin—his whole body looked emaciated. He was malnourished. His lips were dry and cracked, and his skin was much too pale.

"Jace," she whispered, mostly to herself.

She'd spoken almost inaudibly, but Jace's eyes snapped open and Clary nearly drowned. The rest of him was broken down, but his eyes…his eyes were haunted. Torn. Ripped apart and shattered. "Clary?"

That broke her. That one word. Her name. His voice was hoarse and laden with emotion, and despite the fact that she tried so hard to swallow her tears, they spilled over her lashes anyway, and she ran to his bedside. She knelt next to him and grabbed his outstretched hand and pressed her lips to it, and cried. He was silent.

"Jace…Jace, it's really you…I—You have no idea…I—"

"I'm so sorry."

Clary looked up at him, her face stained with tears. "What?"

Jace pushed himself up so he could look at her better. "I said I'm sorry. I—I didn't try hard enough to get back to you, I should've tried harder. I shouldn't have gotten kidnapped, I…Why are you looking at me like that?"

Clary's mouth was agape. "Why…why are you apologizing?"

"Because…if it weren't for me…you wouldn't be so—so sad right now."

Clary snapped her mouth shut and rose from the floor, moving to sit on his bed. "Jace…if it weren't for you…I wouldn't be so happy right now."

Jace furrowed his brow, although he was gripping onto her hand like it was his lifeline to the world. "You're happy?"

She nodded through her tears and smiled. "Yes. Yes, of course I am. You're back, you're alive, you're okay…that's all I could ask possibly ask for."

"Clary?"

"What?"

"Can I hold you?"

And so, they lay together on that hospital bed, wrapped in each other's arms, their tears mixing together where their cheeks touched, and they fell into one of the first peaceful sleeps either of them had had in five years.

* * *

Jace woke up screaming.

* * *

**Whoo! Short chapter. Again. Sorry. HAPPY NEW YEAR.**


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